


moment's respite

by impossibletruths



Series: until the dawn [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Awkward Flirting, Canon Compliant, F/M, Flirting, Fluff, I Only Ever Write Late Night Conversations So Here's Another One, Late Night Conversations, Missing Scene, Pre-Relationship, Prompt Fill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-18
Updated: 2019-02-18
Packaged: 2019-10-30 19:33:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17834783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/impossibletruths/pseuds/impossibletruths
Summary: He is not the only one seeking a moment’s respite in the small hours of the morning.Or, a late night conversation and a bit of a flirt.





	moment's respite

**Author's Note:**

> For the prompt _first time flirting_ \+ vesper/cullen. originally posted to [tumblr](https://cityandking.tumblr.com/post/172088452372/he-is-not-the-only-one-seeking-a-moments-respite).

It’s well past midnight, and the watch fires burn low along the walls. He ought to be asleep, or if not sleeping at least looking over the dozens of reports that keep pouring in every day, but his skin feels too tight, stretched thin around his bones, and his pulse pounds behind his eyes. When the words begin to drift across the page he gives up, tidying his makeshift desk in the lower courtyard. He can almost hear Cassandra’s nagging. He should rest. The reports will wait until dawn.

But despite the late hour, sleep is a far-off and unattainable prospect, so he settles for a walk instead in the hopes that it might clear his mind. At the very least, it can’t hurt to make a round to check their defenses. There are some old fears that are hard to shake, even now.

The moonlight and the fires burning along the battlements serve as faint, flickering guides. But they have, for the most part, cleared the debris and grime of a hundred years abandonment from the parapets, so he does not fear to stumble or fall. He had seen to their defenses first, and that included clearing the battlements, making them safe to patrol and, should it come to that, fight from.

Now, though, only a couple of Leliana’s scouts linger in the dark. Cullen doubts they’ll see anything. A week they’ve been ensconced in this forgotten keep and they’ve seen neither hide nor hair of the enemy. He has no delusions of being hidden in the mountains, of course––if the pilgrims and refugees that have begun to flock to Skyhold can find it, then the Elder One can just as easily––but it seemed their enemy has better things to do with his time. Which is, in truth, almost a greater worry. He would not be so nervous had the Venatori merely followed them from Haven. At least they’d know where Corypheus’ forces were.

Caught up in his own thoughts, he almost misses the figure standing at the parapets, but a flicker of light out of the corner of his eye catches his attention, and he draws his sword without thinking.

“I would very much appreciate it if you wouldn’t run me through in the middle of the night, Commander,” comes the Inquisitor’s voice out of the dark. Cullen nearly drops the sword.

“Maker’s breath, Ves– Inquisitor, I didn’t––” His heartbeat hammers in his ears, adrenaline surging through him. He sheaths his weapon. “You shouldn’t be out here alone.”

Vesper turns a little. She cups a flicking flame casually in one hand, and the fire lights the underside of her face, catching against the deep bruises of exhaustion beneath her eyes. She looks like a shade of the woman they proclaimed Inquisitor only a week ago, the leader who stood tall and proud above them all, burning with an inner fire and swearing to lay down her life if it set them free. Now she looks only tired, worn. She smiles at him, faint and a little fragile.

“The guards said much the same,” she admits, turning back towards the mountains. Cullen hesitates a moment, then steps up next to her. The cool breeze clears his head a little. The mountains tower above them, shadows against the stars blotting out great swaths of the night sky. Cullen glances at Vesper. Her head tilts up towards the few unobscured constellations, fire still flickering in her palm. She looks almost soft against the unyielding might of the Frostbacks. The thought makes his lips quirk.

“Trouble sleeping?” she asks suddenly, and he snaps his gaze back towards the mountain.

“Clearing my head,” he answers. For a moment he considers telling her about the lyrium, but the thought of facing her disappointment silences him. And, anyways, Cassandra has the matter well in hand already.

“Do you ever rest?” she says, and she sounded amused of all things. Cullen risks a glance at her. She stares still out at the mountains, but her head angles towards him, awaiting a reply. Cullen sighs and rubs at the back of his neck, trying to dispel some of the ache that settles there.

“I manage,” he says.

“Between training the men and war table meetings?” she asks. “A cat nap, perhaps.”

She is, he realizes suddenly, teasing him. It takes him a moment too long to respond, but she is rare with her familiarity, and even the brittle-dry humor she wields rarely graces him. He is oddly honored to be considered worth the casualness.

“Beneath the desk, yes,” he agrees amiably when he finds his tongue. “Cassandra allows me a pallet and I must make use of it when I can.”

“How undignified.”

“Well, we are an organization of heretics and traitors.”

“Of course. I suppose we should simply be glad to have a roof over our heads.”

He thinks of the gaping hole in the ceiling of his quarters and coughs out, “Indeed.”

She’s smiling; the curve of her lips catches in the glittering firelight she cradles.

“And yourself?” he counters.

“Cassandra found me a whole bed. She must like me more.”

He snorts. “I meant to ask why you were up at such an hour, but if you’re only going to rub it in––“

She makes a face at the question and he regrets it almost the moment he says it. The quiet warmth around them fades, and she presses her lips together, smile gone. Cullen scrambles to assure her he expects no answer, but––

“Bad dreams,” she answers anyway, one hand pressed flat upon the stone of the wall.

He understands.

“If you, ah, wish to talk––” he starts, then trails off. He knows better than to pry into someone else’s nightmares. Maker knows he has enough of his own already.

Vesper raises the fire in her hand, reaching over with the other to spin one finger idly through the flames. She coaxes it up, a vine twirling around her finger for a moment before it blooms. Cullen watches, equal parts captivated and cautious. He has seen his fair share of magic––at times he thinks he has seen too much––but that has always been the routine exercises of apprentices, or the destructive might of extremists and apostates. Seeing such idle artistry seems a rare gift.

“Envy,” she says after a moment. The vine fades away to smoke, leaves only the hollow flame flickering in her cupped palm, and then that too fades, leaves her cast in silvered moonlight. Cullen remains silent. She has spoken little of what had happened between herself and the demon at Therinfal, besides a cursory report, and they agreed not to press.

“I saw what Envy would have done. The Inquisition turned to greed and horror.” Her mouth pulls up, bitter, eyes unseeing. “The demon wore your faces. When Leliana cut your throat the blood felt real.” She falls silent. Her hands curl into fists upon the balustrade. Cullen hesitates, reaches out.

“Inqui–– Vesper––”

She shakes her head, her hair falling across her face, and Cullen retracts his arm. He doesn’t know what to do. The woman standing next to him takes a deep breath and smiles, the same smile she wore as she accepted yet another title upon her already-tired shoulders. Up close like this, it looks hollow. “I’m fine,” she says, too sharp for him to believe. “Only tired. It is easy to get lost among the memories, this late at night.”

Yes, well. He knows all about that. He does not think she would care to hear. She has burdens enough of her own.

“Of course,” he offers, at a loss. She seems almost sorry.

“Thank you for your company,” she tells him, looking at him fully for the first time. He tries to smile. From her expression, it doesn’t come off particularly well.

“I’m afraid I am not much company this late at night,” he says, echoing her words. Her smile blooms, small but honest.

“No, nor I. But I thank you for it nevertheless.”

“It has been my pleasure.”

For a moment they stand there, staring at each other at the top of the wall in the small hours of the morning, companionship unexpectedly easy. She breaks the moment first, sighing and stretching.

“If I’m doomed to be up at this hour, I have work,” she says, sounding almost regretful. “And you could use some rest, I’m certain.”

Cullen rubs at the back of his neck, fingers cold from the night air. She’s right, he should get what sleep he can. He pushes himself away from the parapet and turns to face her fully. Her hair, worn loose for once, falls in waves her face, burnished bronze in the dark. The cold turns her nose pink; he can see it in the faint light of the fire she rekindles in her palm with the ease of a thought. It is easy to forget she is only human too.

“I would bid you a goodnight, but I fear it’s already morning,” he says, and on a whim––and before his courage can desert him––he reaches for her free hand and pressed a kiss to the back of it. “Sleep well.”

He glances up long enough to catch sight of the red light of the fire dancing across her face––or perhaps that is a blush to match his own––and turns around, marching blindly back along the battlements, face burning. Maker, what is he thinking. There’s a war on. He’s better things to do than nurse a schoolyard crush.

But as he drifts to sleep later that night, steeling himself the demons that lurk in his dreams, he holds tight to that glimpse of her face, nose pink and hair loose and eyes bright, and it seemed to him when he wakes in the morning the nightmares have lost some of their bite.


End file.
